


Warm and Colder

by benevolentmonolithicc



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, When does this take place? Hell if I know, and they're both too stubborn to take it, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25536772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benevolentmonolithicc/pseuds/benevolentmonolithicc
Summary: “I’ve got work.” Jon tapped the box.Martin raised an eyebrow at it, then at Jon. “That’ll be there in the morning.”“Not if I do it now.”“Jon…”“Alright, fine.” Jon ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses. “My flat is getting fumigated. I can’t go home even if I wanted to.”“So you were just going to what, sleep here then?” laughed Martin incredulously.“Yes,” snapped Jon, rather defensively. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.” At this, Martin flushed slightly and began to wring his hands.“You could always stay with me,” he said.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 14
Kudos: 214





	Warm and Colder

The Archives were quiet and dark. Jon liked it that way, it helped him think. The fluorescent lights of his office were like a spotlight, and so Jon performed his most polished act, the stony misanthrope. It was an old act, but a trusted one, and when the others all filtered out and he couldn’t hear anything but the turning of pages and a long electric hum, he could even convince himself it wasn’t an act at all. He flipped through a box of misfiled statements and got into opening position. Jon was, however, interrupted by a knock at his door.

Martin, sweatered and pulling on what was probably a heavy coat once, looked into his office with a look of confusion and what Jon gathered was disappointment. “Are you still here?”

“Clearly,” sighed Jon. “So are you.”

“I was about to head out.”

Jon looked down at the box and started pawing through it again, this time pointedly. It was always fun to perform for others. “So head out.”

“I’m...I’m going to.” Martin leaned against the doorway, eyebrows knit together in concern. “Are you?”

“I’ve got work.” Jon tapped the box.

Martin raised an eyebrow at it, then at Jon. “That’ll be there in the morning.”

“Not if I do it now.”

“Jon…”

“Alright, fine.” Jon ran a hand through his hair and adjusted his glasses. “My flat is getting fumigated. I can’t go home even if I wanted to.”

“So you were just going to what, sleep here then?” laughed Martin incredulously.

“Yes,” snapped Jon, rather defensively. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere else to go.” At this, Martin flushed slightly and began to wring his hands.

“You could always stay with me,” he said.

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be.” Martin’s face was earnest and kind and open, and it almost made Jon somehow believe that he truly wouldn’t be an imposition. Almost.

Jon looked away. “The cot in the back is fine, really Martin.”

“No it’s not,” said Martin with such a ferocity that Jon had to look at him. “I’ve slept on that long enough to know that it’s garbage.”

A smile flickered on Jon’s face. “Fair.”

“So are you coming?”

“You’re sure it’s fine?” Jon asked, picking at a scar on his thumb. If Martin noticed, he didn’t say anything. He just smiled at him, and Jon picked at the scar some more.

“Of course.”

Jon fought a grin. “Give me a minute, I’ll get my coat.” And the act turned off with the lights of the office.

The bus stop in front of the Institute shined like the North Pole in the faint moonlight and was twice as cold. The dark and quiet was different here, sharper, and intercut with the sounds of the city and the white haze of his and Martin’s frozen breaths. He shivered, though if it was from the chill of the sense of unease he couldn't tell.

Jon glanced at Martin. “So when's this bus getting here?”

“Soon.” Martin was shaking like a leaf, and his hands were firmly shoved into his pockets. The coat was so thin Jon could make out the contours of all his fingers, even the little mole on his pinky.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, yes I’m alright,” Martin gave him a reassuring smile, slightly undercut by the chattering of his teeth. “Just cold.”

Jon made up his mind. “Here.” He held out his hands and gestured at Martin’s, still clenched tightly in his pockets. 

Martin looked at them, and Jon watched his fingers unfurl. He looked unsure. “I…”

“I run warm,” Jon explained. Martin, red-faced from the cold as far as Jon could tell, held out his shaking hands. Jon clutched them in his own scarred ones. He rubbed them then, trying to warm them up, and definitely not thinking about how soft they were.

“Thanks.” Jon could hear the smile in his voice and kept his eyes focused on the task at hand.

“No problem.”

“You know, I actually like winter.” Jon lifted his head to raise an eyebrow at him, and Martin laughed. “Not the cold, obviously, but the feel of it, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Jon begrudged. “Sort of.”

“Well, I don’t like the cold but I like what it brings.” Martin’s hands shifted as he spoke. Martin talked with his hands, and while Jon had grown to...appreciate the quirk it made it very hard to hold those made-of-motion hands of his. “The snow, the ice, the way the sky looks-”

“Grey?”

“Yeah.” Martin laughed again, and Jon felt something warm inside him. “But everything’s kind of blue-tinted. It’s pretty. Very romantic.”

Jon froze and let Martin’s hands drop. “What?”

“Oh!” Martin looked horrified. “Christ, I didn't mean it like that! Poetically speaking. Sorry.” Martin was very red, and Jon flushed as well. He didn’t pick up Martin’s hands again, and he was very glad of the bus, even if they were silent the whole ride, even if he kept thinking about the mole on Martin’s little finger.

* * *

Martin fumbled with the keys in his slowly thawing hands, but he got the door of his flat open all the same. The lights flickered on, revealing a...a very Martin flat. It smelled like tea and candles and it was filled with throw pillows and to Jon, it seemed like the most comfortable place in the world. Martin looked sheepishly at him. “This is my place. It’s a bit of a mess but I...” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. “I didn’t know anyone was coming over.”

“It’s fine, Martin.” Jon smiled at him, and he tried to look as grateful as he felt. “Thank you.”

“Of course, any time.” Martin’s face was still red as he led Jon inside. “Tea?”

“I don’t want to-”

Martin held up a hand. “Jon. It’s _me._ I was going to make tea anyway.”

“Yes then. Tea would be lovely, thank you.”

Martin laughed that warm filling laugh and hit a button on his electric kettle. “You don’t have to keep thanking me, you know.”

“You’re letting me stay in your home,” pointed Jon, sitting awkwardly on the couch, unsure. “You’re making me tea.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, rifling through a drawer, full to the brim with tea from the sound of it. “And you let me stay in the Archives for weeks.”

The kettle roared for a moment, then clicked off. “It’s not the same,” said Jon.

“For the amount of time you spend in the Archives, it might as well be.” Martin headed over to the couch with two cups of tea and a soft, teasing smile. He handed Jon a mug.

Jon took it. “Thank you.”

Martin let out an exasperated noise. “Jon-”

“It’s polite!” said Jon defensively. “I’m not going to stop.”

“Fine then.” Martin shook his head and took a long sip from his own slightly chipped mug. “The bed’s over there and the bathroom’s next to it.” He gestured towards a small hallway, if a passageway that small could even be considered as such, and Jon set his jaw.

“Martin,” he said slowly.

“Yes?”

“I’m not taking the bed.”

“And why not?”

“It’s your house!”

“And as such I’m giving you the bed,” Martin set his tea on the table. “This couch is terrible, it'll kill your back.”

“All the more reason you shouldn’t sleep on it,” Jon agreed, following suit.

Martin crossed his arms. “I’m not going to argue this.”

“You don’t have to, because I’m not going to get up.” Any misgivings about how welcome he was on the couch were forgotten. Jon burrowed himself into the thing, the pillows and the backing and seat and all the throw pillows in between engulfed him utterly.

Martin pointed an accusatory finger at the pile on his couch formerly known as Jonathan Sims. “You’re ridiculous.”

“ _You’re_ ridiculous,” said Jon, voice muffled and filled with wild abandon. “Go to bed.”

Martin was quiet for a moment, looking disapprovingly at Jon. Finally, he stood. “Fine. But I’m taking you with me.”

“What?” Jon had barely a minute to process what Martin had said before Martin was grabbing him and hoisting him into the air like an insolent toddler. It must have been the adrenaline flowing through him because of it that made Jon’s brain short circuit, and all he could think was that Martin’s sweater was warm, and he smelled like cinnamon and tea leaves and dish soap. Martin unceremoniously dropped him on the bed and bolted from the room like a spooked horse. And so Jon was alone in the bed. He blinked, trying to form the words that would properly express a billion emotions in his spinning head and choked out another “What?” And Jon followed Martin out out the room.

Martin was almost completely spread out on the couch. He was sitting up, legs out as far as they could reach, and a smug smile planted on Martin’s lips.

Martin crossed his arms. “Go back to bed, Jon.”

“Did you seriously just _pick me up_ and _carry me_ to bed?”

“Yes.” Martin furrowed his brow. “Stop being stubborn.”

Jon hardened his resolve. He perched himself on the armrest as precariously as possible. “ _You_ stop.”

“You can’t sleep there.” But Martin looked unsure.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“If you thought that you would still be at the Archive,” snorted Martin.

“Fair point.” Jon rolled off the couch in as dignified a manner as he could manage. “The floor then.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes,” said Jon from the floor.

Martin sat up on the couch to look incredulously at him. “For Christ's sake, Jon, there’s no reason to waste the bed.”

Jon raised an eyebrow at him. “Then don’t.”

“I’m not going to let you sleep on the floor while I’m on the couch.”

“Then sleep in the bed!”

“That’s worse!” Martin joined him on the floor. They lay there, faced to face, expressions tight, and arms folded.

“Excellent,” said Jon. “Now no one’s comfortable.”

“You could always-”

Jon glared at him. “No.”

“Fine then.” There was a beat in which they were quiet. The sounds of the city were muted and seemed as far away as the bed at that moment. There wasn’t anything here on the floor, just each other and all the stubbornness between them.

Jon broke the silence with a shiver. “Your floor is freezing.”

“The whole house is freezing,” Martin explained. “The heater’s broken.”

“How’d you stay warm then?” asked Jon.

“Blankets. Lots and lots of blankets.” There was a wistful look in Martin’s eyes like he was remembering an old yet wonderful dream that had just begun to fade. “There’s a duvet on the bed that’s a furnace in its own right.” Another beat, more shivering from both of them.

“A duvet sounds rather nice right about now."

“Yeah.” Martin shot him a wan smile. “You know where it is.”

“I’m not leaving you to shiver on the floor. Or the couch.” And neither of them said anything for a while. It was too cold to talk, too cold to think, too cold to breathe. It was too cold for anything. Jon's skin that was touching the wood of the floor was starting to fall asleep, and for that he was grateful.

“Jon?” Jon looked up to see Martin’s eyes on his.

“Yes?”

“Could I...could I hold your hands again?” He was red again, and Jon hoped that if it wasn’t from the cold it afforded him some modicum of warmth. “Like you did before?”

“Yeah.” Jon forced his frozen hands to move and to hold Martin’s. If his hands were cold, Martin’s were ice. They were curled into claws, and even as Martin's whole body shook they barely moved. Jon’s hand moved up to Martin’s goose-bump covered arm and he started to rub that too.

“Thank you,” Martin murmured. It wasn’t helping, and Jon growled in frustration.

He sighed and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Get up.”

“What?”

“We can’t spend the night on your floor.” Jon grabbed Martin’s arm and pulled him to his feet, almost buckling under the weight - Jon had the upper body strength of a malnourished child. He led Martin to the bedroom.

Recognition flashed in Martin’s eyes. “I’m not-”

“Shut up. Yes, you are. And...and so am I.” Jon gave Martin’s arm another pull. “We’re going to need the duvet, you live in a meat locker.”

“Is it going to be weird?”

“Why would it be? We’re both adults.” The pair made it to the bed, and Jon finally got a good look at it. It was a hodge-podge of assorted blankets, quilts, and pillows. And it was Martin’s. It smelled like him, that tea leaf and cinnamon smell radiated from the mass of the bed. Jon would have been trepidacious if at that moment a chill didn’t run down the length of his body. Jon climbed into the bed, and let the layers envelop him, as Martin did the same. Even under the weight of blankets, and the insulation from the elements that they provided, Martin was still shivering. Jon sighed. "Are you still cold?”

Martin made a face at him. “Some of us aren’t made of fire, Jon.”

“Right. You’re clearly made of ice.”

“Then why would I be shivering?”

“I don’t know. It’s too cold to think.” Jon blushed and hoped Martin couldn't tell. It wasn’t too cold to think, he wasn’t cold at all under all of it. It was too _Martin_ to think. He was drowning in him. Jon reached out to Martin. “Come here,” he said, and he started rubbing Martin’s hands again.

Martin gave him a weak smile. “Thank you again.”

“I’m the one staying at your house,” Jon reminded him.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to do this,” Martin rubbed his thumb against Jon’s for a moment, and Jon was definitely flushed now.

“Yes, I do. You’re freezing.”

“I’m always freezing. Made of ice, like you said. I’d be fine.”

“I can stop if you’d like.” Jon paused in his efforts.

“It’s alright.” Martin squeezed his hands. “It’s good to be more than fine, sometimes. So thank you.”

Martin fell asleep first, Jon still rubbing his hands, and it was with great reluctance that he removed them from his grip. He was alone again in the silence of the night, the only light being the moonlight filtering weakly from a window on the opposite end of the room. But he wasn’t alone, not really. Martin was there, hair falling into his gently closed eyes and his features even softer relaxed like this. It was cold, but not here, not in the bed. Here it was warm, and it smelled like cinnamon and dish soap and tea leaves. What had Martin said at the bus stop? Winter was romantic. He hadn’t known what Martin had meant then, or he hadn’t let himself. But he did now, looking at Martin in the blue-tinted moonlighted. And he didn’t need to act here.


End file.
